Shayne was looking at him thoughtfully, and Malloy went on, “We’ve got time for another drink.”
Shayne watched him pour the cognac. He had been with Martha Baines that long-ago afternoon when four cops—tongue-tied and miserable, but doing what they had to do—had brought her husband’s body home. She had seemed very young to Shayne then, too young to have such a thing happen to her. Under Shayne’s eyes in the days that followed, the scared kid had turned into a mature, tragic-faced woman. Her husband, a plainclothes detective, had been shot by a thief he had surprised in the act of robbing a jewelers’ exchange. Shayne, on contingency fee from an insurance company, had brought in the killer and recovered most of the stolen jewelry. The murderer’s death sentence had been commuted, largely on the strength of a plea for clemency made by the young widow.
During the trial and afterward, Shayne had come to feel a deep admiration for Martha Baines. He had seen the color return to her cheeks, and on one occasion he still remembered clearly—he had taken her to a jai-alii fronton—he had watched her eyes light up with excitement for the first time since her husband’s death. Not long after that, he had met Lucy Hamilton, and from then on no other woman could mean anything to him.
He picked up his glass and took a long swallow. “You really think Slater’s mixed up in something important?”
“Yes,” Malloy said quietly. “I’m sure as it’s possible to be without absolute proof. Maybe Watts was actually killed in a barroom brawl, but is it likely, Mike? And there’s one other point I haven’t mentioned. I’ve had a number of little tips that stuff is coming into St. Albans for re-shipment to the States.”
Shayne tugged at one ear lobe. “If you’re right, if Slater got by with something this last time, he’ll try it again. Sooner or later you’ll catch him and put him in jail, and that’ll be hell on Martha. All right, I’ll talk to her. It’ll be a painful conversation, God knows, but she can probably convince him—”
Malloy put in quickly, “I wish you wouldn’t, Mike. Of course I can’t stop you. That’s one of the risks I’m running by putting my cards on the table. What if she does persuade him to quit? They’ll get themselves another boy. If the gimmick still works and the new courier makes money, Slater will be sore that he let her talk him out of it. The next time he gets an offer he’ll take it, and he’ll be back on the merry-go-round. Let’s put the main people out of business, Mike. Then he won’t be tempted. I’ve been looking for a chance like this. We pick up the couriers now and then, and our seizures just about cover expenses. We never touch the higher-ups. We don’t even hurt them financially. There’s a bunch of ethical businessmen in Amsterdam who write insurance covering smuggling losses.”
A fair young man in pilot’s uniform came down the aisle. “Can’t hold her much longer, Jack. The control tower’s getting salty.”
“Just going,” Malloy said. “This is Mike Shayne, Captain Connors.”
“Hello, Mr. Shayne,” the pilot said, shaking hands. “I’ve heard about you.”
“Can you stall for two minutes more?” Shayne said. “We’d appreciate it.”
“Sure. But that’s about all.”
When the pilot left, Shayne said angrily, “I don’t know a soul on the island. I don’t know the ground rules. I’m only hitting on three cylinders, and if somebody gives me a gentle nudge in the ribs, I go back to the hospital for another few weeks. And how about this program you’ve laid out for me? All you want me to do is break up a smuggling ring, solve a murder, keep Slater out of trouble unless he happens to turn out to be the murderer, and at the same time see to it that the next shipment, whatever it is, goes through with another courier so you’ll get credit for a seizure and I’ll get a fee. They’ll be in a hurry now, so how much time do I have for all this? A couple of days?”
Malloy grinned. “I had an idea you’d do it.”
“Don’t expect any miracles, that’s all,” Shayne said, still angry.
“Well, I’ve seen you pull some surprising rabbits out of hats in your time, Mike. There’s only one lead I can give you, and frankly it’s not too hot. I’m told that some of the high-duty stuff coming into St. Albans from Europe ends up with a character named Luis Alvarez, also known as the Camel. A Venezuelan. He runs a tourist trap called The Pirate’s Rendezvous.”
“Any connection with Slater?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Wait a minute,” Shayne said as Malloy turned. He worried at his earlobe for a moment longer and said, “This may not work, but I’m going to need something. Get a flier printed up. ‘Wanted for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution’—one of those. You can pick up a picture of me in one of the newspaper morgues. Not the News, because I don’t want Tim Rourke to know about this. Print up a half dozen with my description and some nice interesting crime and rush them down to the St. Albans cops on tomorrow afternoon’s plane. Special delivery. Urgent. You have information that this man has left the country, heading for the Caribbean.”
Malloy thought about it. “I don’t like it, Mike. Officially I have to keep on good terms with all the departments in the area.”
“Then don’t sign it with your own name,” Shayne said impatiently. “Use a mimeographed sheet. To all police chiefs in the Caribbean. From Joe Doakes, Miami office, FBI. Hell, do I have to draft it for you? If you really don’t like the idea, think of a better one.”
“I can’t on the spur of the moment,” Malloy admitted. “What name do you want on the picture?”
Shayne sighed. “Michael Shayne, I guess. Too many complications, otherwise. I hope Miss Hamilton doesn’t hear about it.”
“Well, you’re the one who’ll be taking the chances, Mike. Good luck.”
He put out his hand. The stewardess was signalling frantically with her clipboard. He called, “Coming.”
They shook hands briefly. As Shayne watched Malloy go up the aisle, his eyes were bleak. He turned abruptly and reached for the cognac.
2
Paul Slater scrubbed his hand through his fair hair. It was the color of driftwood, cropped very close. He wore only a pair of walking shorts. He was built like an athlete, and his movements were quick and graceful. He was beautifully tanned.
He ground out a cigarette viciously and looked at the girl lying on the bed, propped on one elbow. She was dark, with tousled black hair that looked as though it had been disarranged by a high wind. This was a deliberate effect, produced with care. She was both lithe and lush, an interesting combination which was readily apparent, as she was covered only by one corner of the sheet. That was where it was not because of modesty, but simply because that was where it had ended up.
She blinked up at Slater lazily. “But what was it like?”
“You don’t know, Vivienne,” he said with feeling. “You just don’t know. I’ve never been through anything remotely like it. The physical search—it was thorough and professional and humiliating, of course. Never mind. That I could stand. It was their attitude. I was dirt under their feet.”
“But you fool them, eh?” the girl said indifferently, speaking with a strong French accent.
“Oh, yes,” Slater said gloomily. “It worked like a charm. There’s no doubt about it, I’m a genius. But the one thing that I didn’t expect was the way I felt. At first they were polite and respectful. Not really polite, but they treated me as one professional to another. It was my job to fool them, it was their job not to be fooled. Then they found those miserable watch movements. I’ve been hauling them around in my suitcase ever since the duty went up, just waiting for this moment. Positively brilliant. And all at once I became ludicrous. Fifty watch movements! I wasn’t a professional after all, I was a bungling, half-witted amateur. After that they treated me with contempt. Naturally the judge couldn’t let me go without a tongue lashing. He did a good job of it, too. I was wriggling like a schoolboy.”
“If it had been me,” the girl said, “I would have been laughing at them inside the whole time.”
He stared at the glowing tip of the cigarette. He sat down on the edge of the bed beside her and dropped one hand lightly onto her hip.
“Anyway,” he said, “that’s the last time I go through anything like that. I’m resigning, as of now. That’s what I’ve been leading up to. I want you to know how I feel about it.”
Her eyes glinted for a moment. Then her lids came down and hid the shrewd look that had appeared in them briefly. She raised her arms and stretched, her body moving underneath his hand.
“Of course you must stop if you feel that way, cheri. It is not too serious. There are other ways of getting money.”
“Name three,” Slater said grimly. “I don’t see myself selling enough baskets to gift shops to put me up with Rockefeller. No, I can’t quite picture it. God knows there’s money around. Look at these damned tourists. Where they get it, I don’t know. None of it seems to stick to me.”
“Then I’ll tell you what I think,” she said. “I think we must bid each other goodbye. Not at this precise minute! No, in a little while. I am without money or family, with my way to make in the world. Poor Paul, I am such a terrible extravagance for you. So say goodbye to me like a good friend. It will be simple.”
“Simple! “he said.
“But of course. You must cut down on expenses. You have me, you have your wife. Everything double. I am not asking you to divorce her. Absolutely not. That is altogether your affair.”
Slater breathed out heavily.
“I am ashamed, you know,” she said. “Not about our love, that is a very beautiful thing. But because of me, you must do something you dislike. You are unhappy. I say it will be simple, but not easy. It will be hard. For me as well. But I am very, very bad for you, Paul. I will leave your life, then again you can be happy in the old way, no more of this silly business of taking things to America against the law.”
“God, Vivienne,” he protested.
She moved restlessly. “I like you more than any man I have ever known. You make me feel—so—” She stopped. “I cannot say it in this stiff and awkward language, English. But you know it. You know it well. What am I to do? My other American friend says he can find a way to take me to your country, where I so much long to be. I am tired of these hot, horrible little towns. I want to see New York! The cars, the beautiful clothes, the tall buildings. To be looked at, admired. I am stifling here.”
She came up on both elbows and said quickly, “I know how you feel. But listen to me, Paul. You said the next time would be really big. I mean, you would make more than ever before. And after that, then you could stop, and we could still—” The light in her face faded and she lay back. “No, it is impossible. There is always that one chance in fifty, and it would be horrible if—”
“Ten years in jail,” he said. “God, I just don’t know. Maybe—”
She smiled suddenly and reached out for him with both arms. “Let us forget about money and such things. We are together. Who knows? If it is the last time, we will always regret wasting it in talking.”
“It won’t be the last,” he said fiercely.
She moistened her lips, and a sort of veil fell over her eyes. “You are also wasting time smoking a cigarette. You can smoke cigarettes by the carton after your wife returns. Paul, my darling.”
A sound escaped him, almost a groan. He waited while her eyes closed and her tongue moved impatiently across her lips. She was snapping her fingers silently, as she did when she was hunting for an English word.
Putting his burning cigarette deliberately on the edge of the bedside table, he came down to her. The cigarette continued to smolder, leaving a scar on the varnish, overlapping other burn-marks left by other careless guests of the hotel. Soon there was nothing left but ash. The breeze from the open window struck it. It sifted to the floor.
Suddenly the phone rang.
Slater lifted his head. They looked at each other in dismay.
“She couldn’t be—” he said.
The phone rang again. He snatched it up.
“Yes? She is? My God! Yes. Thanks.”
He hurled the phone at the cradle. “Martha’s back! She’s in the lobby now. You’ve got to—”
Sitting up, the girl pushed at her hair. “This would be a good time to tell her, no? That is, if you have made up your mind to tell her.”
“Not like this!” Slater said, appalled. “If she walks in on—” He gestured at the tumbled bed, the untidy room. “It’s out of the question. Goddamn it, will you hurry?”
He seized her arms and pulled her off the bed. She felt among her clothes, which were lying in a heap on a chair.
“So you did not mean the things you said in my ear one minute ago? I am not surprised. I have experience with this habit of men. Promises—”
“I meant it all! It’s just—my God, no, there’s no time, never mind those things. Just your dress and shoes. Vivienne, darling, please. I can’t hurt her this way. She’s been hurt so badly already.”
“And I?” Vivienne asked, with surprising dignity considering the fact that she was lifting her dress to pull it over her head.
“Nobody can hurt you,” he said. “That’s one of the things I like about you.”
“I am hard, am I?” she cried. She wriggled her dress down over her hips and tugged at the zipper. “I am not flesh and bone, I am made of metal. That is what you think.”
“Don’t be dumb, baby. I know what you’re made of, and it isn’t metal. Leave that zipper. Fix it outside.”
He handed her a shoe. Hopping on one foot, she put it on, suddenly seeming about to cry. “You have this wonderful idea, you, for making money. Most safe. And good God, how badly we need this money, you and I! Perhaps it settles nothing, but we need it, to have time to decide. And suddenly you are frightened because they ask you a few questions. Because a judge scolds you. All the thought, the planning—”
Holding the foot of the bed, she thrust her foot into her second shoe. “But Paul, with everything else you are so nice to me! Why are all rich Americans fat and bald and tiresome? Can you answer that?”
“Not right now,” he said, pushing the remainder of her clothing at her. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Now for God’s sake hurry. Here’s your garter belt! Christ, if you left that! Go around the corner of the corridor. You can hear the elevator. And don’t get the clever idea of coming out ahead of time so she sees you, to settle things that way. It wouldn’t be clever at all.”
He kissed her forehead quickly and propelled her out the door. There was one good thing, he thought, about this crummy hotel. When the elevator was in operation it clanked horribly, but thank God it still was silent. He watched the French girl. One heel wasn’t all the way inside her shoe, and she had to hop. Her dress was tight about the hips. Going or coming, clothed or unclothed, it was a wonderful thing to see the way she moved, and Slater rubbed the back of one hand across his lips, which suddenly seemed very dry. How in heaven’s name could he be expected to give that up?
“God,” he said softly, and swallowed.
Stepping back, he closed the door and looked around the room quickly. He put the bed in order, drawing the sheets tight and plumping up the p
illows. He took out a colorful short-sleeved sports shirt. After he put it on, he examined his face in the mirror. He rubbed lipstick from the corner of his mouth, using a Kleenex which he was careful to flush away. His hair was short enough so it needed no attention.
He forced himself to stand still and look around the room, taking it one section at a time. The careful scrutiny showed him a lipstick-tipped cigarette. He field-stripped it and threw way the reddened paper. Satisfied, he stretched out on the bed and picked up that week’s issue of the Island Times, which was still, he saw, almost entirely taken up with the murder of the Englishman, Albert Watts.
But he was too unsettled to read. He threw the paper aside. To disarm suspicion completely, he should be doing something normal and routine. Going to the bathroom, he tucked a towel inside his shirt collar and lathered his face. He had shaved before Vivienne came, and scraping off the lather with long sweeping strokes took only a few seconds. His hand jerked as he finally heard the labored clanking of the elevator. He was pretending to work on the stubborn spot on his upper lip when a key turned in the lock.
“Darling?” he called. “I’m in here.”
He went to the bathroom door, the razor in his hand. His wife Martha, an ash-blonde with gray eyes and well-marked cheekbones, put down her overnight bag.
“Paul.”
She brushed back her hair with a weary gesture, went to the bureau and took a cigarette out of the package there. She held herself with her usual erectness, but she seemed very tired.
She tapped the cigarette on the bureau. “Well, it was a wild-goose chase, I’m afraid. The woman who used to make those wonderful woven trays has been sick for three months, and she didn’t have a thing for me. After that there didn’t seem to be much point in going on to the other village for a few baskets. I turned tail and came home. I suppose I was a little discouraged, Paul. I’ve been counting heavily on those trays. Well, one of these days our luck will change.”
Murder Takes No Holiday Page 2
